I exit from a subterranean labyrinth at the green path. The last time I was here, I watched you disappear into the decaying mouth from which I have just ascended. I turn to my left and walk towards the road of little towers, each step more hesitant than the former. Inhaling a cigarette, the ones you smoke, I wait on the corner. A few more steps, a few more steps.

‘Why do we burn? Is it because we dared to hold hands with God, or because we hold each other?’

I don’t believe in God.
I don’t believe in falling stars.
I don’t believe in ecstasy and I don’t believe in love.

I walk down the road of little towers, ruins of buildings lining each side. I stand outside your hostile door and my finger hovers over the bell.

I have already died by this point in time. There was a certain day, a particular moment, but the less I consider it, the less real it is. It had not been an event. There is no anniversary and there is no time for people to mourn. I have gone from here, and I live as I choose. I have gone from here, but I am not dead even though I have died.

I look up at these walls of contested emotions, my finger still hovering. I briefly glimpse my distorted reflection in the silver curvature of the bell, but I no longer recognise my face. I look at your windows, my gaze unable to penetrate into the rooms containing our words. After all, it is words that are the cause of my masks.

Kashif S. Choudhry is a prize winning British writer and surgeon. His works have previously appeared in 3am Magazine and The Asian Writer, along with various anthologies in print. Influenced by surrealism and aesthetics, he has recently completed his first novel. You can follow him @kashchoudhry